nch free. He heard one loud cry, and then there was
silence. He had drowned the footpad. The best swimmer on the coast could
not have got to the shore in that place.

Jack's nerve was completely gone, and he could hardly raise a trot. He
used to laugh much about the terrors that he suffered during the
remainder of his journey. First of all he trod on a young rabbit, and
the shrill squeak that came sent his heart to his mouth; then, just as
he neared his home, the shepherd's donkey took the fancy to bray with
vigour, and Jack thought for one moment that another enemy was upon him.
Presently he saw the light in his own window, and he knew that he was in
honest regions once more. The old people were much amazed when their son
came in, bare-headed, wet, and covered with red rust from the friendly
chain, but they were glad to see him in any plight. The moor is in much
better order now-a-days, for the muggers are all driven away north to
Yetholm and Wooler. A stately policeman traverses the bank once every
night, and no one is ever molested. The first policeman was stabbed from
behind, and flung over the cliff, but there has been no mischief since
that time, and the district is very quiet indeed.

HOB'S TOMMY.

The moor was blazing in the sun. Bright gorse flamed above the pale
green grass, and little pools flashed white rays up to the sky. Hob's
Tommy stepped out of doors, and took a long look round. He was not
impressed by the riot of colour that spread around him; he looked over
the pulsing floor of the sea, and thought, "It will be a fine night for
the trouting."

Tommy was a large man, who seemed to shake the ground as he trod. His
face was devoid of speculation, and his dull blue eyes looked from under
heavy and unamiable brows. His hair was matted, and his mode of dressing
his big limbs showed that he was careless of opinion. He was called
Hob's Tommy because the villagers had a fancy for regarding sons as the
personal property of the father, and thus a man called Thomas, who
happened to be the son of a man called John, never received his surname
during his whole life, excepting on the occasions of his baptism and
marriage. He was known as Jack's Tom. If he, in his turn, happened to
have a son whom he chose to name Henry, the youth was known as Jack's
Tom's Harry. Our friend Tommy's father had been called Hob, and hence
the name of the ill-tempered lout who was gazing on the unsullied sea.
Tommy watched the